


For Those In Peril On the Sea

by GraceEliz



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy Batfamily (DCU), Drowning, Gen, Major character death - Freeform, Mer AU, MerMay, Mild Blood, Mild Horror, Nobody stays dead, Rated T/M, Suicide, for the following - Freeform, in which Bruce is possibly a god but everyone is too scared to ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: Deep under the water’s surface live the Mer-creatures. It is a simple fact of the sea that they exist, but they exist for the majority of people in the same way that cloud leopards do: distantly, secretly.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & His Children, Gilda Dent/Harvey Dent
Kudos: 52





	1. Prologue: For Those In Peril On The Sea

Eternal Father, strong to save,  
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,  
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep  
Its own appointed limits keep;  
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,  
For those in peril on the sea!

O Christ! Whose voice the waters heard  
And hushed their raging at Thy word,  
Who walkedst on the foaming deep,  
And calm amidst its rage didst sleep;  
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,  
For those in peril on the sea!

Most Holy Spirit! Who didst brood  
Upon the chaos dark and rude,  
And bid its angry tumult cease,  
And give, for wild confusion, peace;  
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,  
For those in peril on the sea!

O Trinity of love and power!  
Our brethren's shield in danger's hour;  
From rock and tempest, fire and foe,  
Protect them wheresoe'er they go;  
Thus evermore shall rise to Thee  
Glad hymns of praise from land and sea

\- Original Version of the Hymn, 1860, William Whiting


	2. In the Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem in this chapter I made up.

_What unholy creature looms,  
So deep and dark  
An ambassador of Poseidon?  
Razor teeth bared,  
Hands spread in soothing benediction,  
He lays His fins to rest in the current.  
At His will the seas rise up  
Siren-song pulling the sinners to eternal rest,  
Met by His ink-black wonder.  
Sing unto the sea,  
Guide us through, Dear Lord,  
For Your blessing we pray,   
Intervene with the creatures below  
Let us not fall into their grasps,  
And even as you pray set your soul to peace.  
_  
‘What Unholy Creature’, written c1790, author unknown.

Deep under the water’s surface live the Mer-creatures. It is a simple fact of the sea that they exist, but they exist for the majority of people in the same way that cloud leopards do: distantly, secretly. Much like any sea-species Mer come in different types. There are freshwater Mer, small, pixie-ish, only about the size of a garden gnome. Records of them being worshipped as deities have been discovered in many early settlements, especially in the most northern parts of the world where life is harsher and the rains lash the land. Allegedly, the Roman invaders of Britain failed to take the folk tales seriously, and suffered for their haughty ignorance. There are Mer who live close to land, almost amphibious – rarer now. It is not widely known that Sirens and coast-dwelling Mer are two different species. 

Of course, if you’re close enough to be able to tell the difference, you’re probably about to be eaten.  
Who knows what lurks out in the open ocean?   
Some people swear down that they have seen Mer, or know someone who has seen a Mer, or have found evidence of Mer – shell combs, broken coral necklaces. Others will whisper over their drinks that a great shadow shape moved along with them, moving in such a manner that it was most certainly not merely a trick of sun and cloud. The presence of Mer-people in the world is undeniable, and little understood. 

However. There is one man who, rumours and social media claim, has regular contact with a Mer-creature. His name is Harvey Dent. His teeth are needle-sharp, his nails talons, his skin grey and lined with burst veins. Harvey Dent is a corpse walking the land. They call him the Prophet, to pass His word. 

All those superstitious sailors are right. Under, below, lives a being greater than any mortal. 

Deep under the waves lurks Him. He is an inkish cloud of fins and tendrils waving through the current, winding out to reach His prey. From above He is invisible, from below He is a blurred silvery shape – but only in the light. In the dark, however, He glints, entrancing His prey; lights flash along His trailing edges, under His skin. Barely any light reaches so deep under the waves, and no human could possibly survive being so deep under without a machine, and so the mighty creature remains unproven to many – proof is in belief, proof is in the dead slave-makers, the ships torn to shreds towed by invisible creatures to shore. Sirens sing His warnings. Whatever He is, He is of terror, nightmare, cruel things and darkness. 

Dick’s family were descended of eel-Mer, it was rumoured. Eel-Mer had always been rare, as rare as the giant Ancient Ones deep below, which meant that there was always so many Mer at their shows. Acrobats, they called them. The Grayson Family could breathe above the surface, a rare gift indeed; some people whispered they were in fact flying through the air – that it was magic as well as brute strength allowing them to do quadruple somersaults over the sparkling waves. 

His parents fall from the air, crashing through the waves, sinking down. Dead weights. Dick screams, rails, tries to stop the blood, but it is useless. There is nothing to do. All the Mer in the crowd flee – sharks will come, and feast on the dead. Let them come, he snarls, fifty years old and not even approaching half-grown, sinuous tail holding his parents carefully as he sinks with them to the reef. Let them come and he will fight them until the end. 

He does. 

There is nothing left to be done. Around him is open water. It doesn’t matter where he is, or where he’s been. His parents are gone to the next world, if He is willing, if He even exists. Dick, alone, entirely alone in the entire whole wide oceans, screams. He screams and screams and screams, tearing at his skin to mark his grief on his body in blood and scar, commemoration in the only way he still knows.   
Below, in the Deep, flash lights. It is Him, coming for him, to kill him for his blasphemy. The dark mass of His tail spreads and sinks; it hurts to look at. 

“Are you going to kill me?”

_Should I?  
_

“How are you speaking to me in my head? What are you?”

_An Ancient. Alone, like you. I can help you, little Richard Grayson. I can give you strength to fly after the guilty. The Oceans are large, little one, and not even I can protect every Mer in them.  
_

Dick shivers in terror, but he nods. It is better than death, and it is almost an offer of vengeance. Avenge. Justice. “You are merciful?”

_I try to be.  
_

“Are you a god?”

 _When I want to be._ There is not even humour in the voice – it is the heady blackness of the void, it is swimming in open ocean without a pod, it is passing trenches that sink far below the tolerance of most Mer. He is the Deep, realises Dick, and whatever he is going to be when He has changed him, it won’t be simple Mer. 

“No! Don’t hurt him, leave us alone! What do you want from us? What can we do?” demanded the boy, barely four and a half feet tall, snarling and spitting in rage. Hanging from the large man’s brutal grip on his collar the other boy – a larger boy but still far from full grown – kicked frantically, scrambling for freedom. If they could only reach the waters, if they could just get into the sea they would be free. Freedom or death, right? Freedom in death. Better the water and the creatures living in it than being trafficked. 

“Tim, look at me,” he gasped, “Look.” Tim did, scrubbing tears out of his eyes desperately. “Dive, okay? When I say so, get in the water and move. I know you can do it.” Dark blue eyes met fiery hazel, glazed in tears. Determination set the smaller boy’s jaw, cold hard icy anger clenched his fist. 

He struck, his brother twisted, and in the mess of blood and screaming the brothers gripped each other’s hands and dove, down, out, away. Maybe they’d drown. Maybe they would not. The older boy pressed his lips to his brother’s, breathed his air into him as they’d practiced when they were working up to this burst for freedom. His eyes glazed. Below, far or near he knew not, flashed blue light. 

Him, he knew without needed to think, He had heard them, and now they died.

“I love you,” he tried to tell Tim, but water forced into his lungs, and he wanted to force Tim above water because no no don’t open your lungs under surface –   
He watched his brother drown, and they were still too deep, and His hands stretched out of the ink-cloud black of His body to them. Jay’s hand went loose in his, but it was okay. At least they went together. 

Cassandra is what the humans would traditionally call a ‘mermaid’, a dolphin’s strong tail and streamlined muscles allowing her to soar through the air with as much ease as she could slice through the waters. Once she walked and danced above the waters on two legs. As far as the upper world is concerned Cassandra Cain died at sea five years ago and her body was unsurprisingly never recovered; the ocean is unforgiving, a harsh mistress, cold and fitful and fickle. Truthfully?

Truthfully, she had heard that He had been known to help those who needed safety. If she could only dive deep enough, she believed, He would find her, to save her. She could ask to stay, to stay or to die surrounded by beautiful corals. So she dove, swimming far out to sea first, heading down into the kelp forests to search Him out and beg his mercy. To this day she wakes in the night feeling the cloying tendrils on her wrists, the ache like knives in her heart, the dizziness: but she will not cry. Not when He showed such mercy, when He saved her, wrapped her in His magic and breathed water into her lungs. Her tail is woven from nothing but His will, strong as she wanted to be. 

It is her duty to monitor the surface, freeing creatures, rescuing the drowning, returning bodies to shore if necessary. When two small boys dive, she knows with the sense He gave her; when the elder gives his younger the very air in his lungs she feels it; when they die she is there, holding them whilst He gives them life. Her Father is kind, when He is not grieved. She smiles, holding the smaller close as he is given octopus’ tentacles for he is smart, so smart. His brother is given a long powerful tuna’s tail. Dark Prince, she says, pressing her hand to his head. Now there is four of them to help Him in His purpose.   
Free the seas. 

The cruel slave-makers pass above, and He looks to her, His sharp teeth reflecting the light filtering down. His magic gifts her sharp nails, sharper teeth: blood will stain the waters tonight, will run down her jaws and stain her dress. 

Harvey Dent is alone, hurting, grieving his wife. Blood drips from his hands into the salt water, from his face, soaking his shirt. This was meant to be a pleasurable experience, a one-year anniversary gift to Gilda, something for them to remember.

Her body lies cold stiffening greying empty-eyed broken beside him, tucked and curled into his leg as if she’s only sleeping. Sleeping, that’s all. She’ll wake up soon, like always. Gilda is like that, continuously waking up when isn’t curled into her. Under his hand, her hair is cold, clotted, sticking. 

The water will cleanse their sins. The water will free them. 

“I love you, Gilda. I love you.”

Water closes over their heads. Like this, she almost feels alive again. In his last moments, who will blame him for this fantasy? There is nothing left for him without her. 

He screams awake in a burst of terror – he’d dreamed that his darling Gilda lay consigned to a watery grave, buried in a sand swell with light playing over it and a tuna-tailed Mer winding through the water towards the sparkling surface. The grave is marked by a short mast of wood, by huge shells, by a lone coral plant. She would have liked that, to be the seed of a new reef. Something alive and growing and thriving and sheltering, just as she does.

Where her head should be, tucked into his shoulder or his ribs, it is not.

“Gilda?” he asks the dark. The only answer is the lap of water. Where is he? This is not their bedroom on the cruise –

Oh.

“Gilda,” he keens, curling around the emptiness in his gut, choking on rising horror. Gone, alone, how could he forget? Sinking through the waters with her hands tight in his scarred hand and his unscarred palm pressing her close to him. Hadn’t they sworn a forever? Until death do us part, he remembers bitterly, hating, death has dared part us.

Two wants war in him: join her in death, or hunt down her killers. Blood spilled by his hands stains his soul as it does all of Gotham’s criminal heads. More blood, spilled for her, is nothing. Harvey wants revenge for his wife.

_What is your name?  
_

“Who’s there,” he snaps out, afraid under his agony.  
I can help you.

“Bring my wife back then.”

_That is against nature, and she was too far gone. I am deeply sorry for it. She has a beautiful grave, where the sunbeams will warm the sand, protected from storms.  
_

Harvey curls into himself once more, tears dripping down his chin – how can he survive this? How can he move when his entire heart is dead and his soul incomplete? “How can you help me,” he chokes past his sobs.

He has the impression that the creature communicating with him smiles. _You will be mostly-killed, and you shall be my prophet above the waves.  
_

(Harvey Dent leaves watermarks where he steps, drops salt from wrinkled fingertips, and his voice when he speaks bubbles like through water. Nobody is safe from the judgement he wreaks in Gotham and its harbour. When he is finished weeding out the unrighteous, he moves on. The little street-children say that He sent him to save them, to cleanse the Earth, but surely that is sacrilege. An almighty God would not lurk under the oceans like some occult nightmare.

Who knows the truth? Not any of those who disbelieve in Him.)

It is most peculiar, having a link to a mortal human – even stranger than not dying, or having a link to Him in his mind allowing Him to communicate directly, because the mortal humans fear the sea. In the back of his mind under the new sensations and understandings he remembers that, the desperation of sinking below the waves knowing they were about to die and praying to be dead by the arrival of the sharks and other eaters of dead things. But the past memories of his home are irrelevant, now, under the much more important sensation of fear emanating down the weak mental link to the human He seems so fond of. The human is in pain. 

As the closest of His children, it is his duty to assist, to save. That is his purpose. 

He is as strong as the tuna he has the tail of, as powerful as any creature beneath His waves, he powers to the boat. Brave of the mortal, to dare a boat when his wife – she had been his wife, had she not? – had been murdered on the sea. But then, is that not His way, to find those broken and dying and catch them in His inky embrace, bring them into the fold. 

There he is, half-drowned, clinging to wreckage bobbing in red-hued waters, burning oil belting black smoke. Gentle, Jay wraps the mortal human in his slicked arms, slicked by his new inhumanity, tugging him down to the rising blackness of His shelter and care. No human care can compare to what He can do for those He protects, and this little human needs the most protection of them all, with his thin skin, pale eyes. Perhaps it is because he carries the ocean with him above, where he walks on two legs, leaving his trail in salt water and fear. He carries them safe to the Cave, far deeper than any mortal being should survive, where the human will be able to recover.


End file.
